Stowaway
by Mandelene
Summary: America gets more than he bargained for when he decides to see for himself just what it means to be a pirate. (FACE family)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This request was submitted by **kandielric** on Tumblr. It looks like it's going to be a three-shot. As always, if you'd like to submit a request for a fic, you can inbox me at my blog, Mandelene Fics! (Just be warned I'm incredibly slow with fills because I have a long list to get through first). ENJOY! :D

* * *

America has learned not to let himself get too attached, so when England takes him horseback riding, helps him catch his first fish by the side of the river, and teaches him how to waltz without tripping over his own feet, he makes sure not to smile too hard. He knows that before long, the man will slip away and disappear to some place halfway across the world and leave him to fend for himself for months with only the maid, Marybeth, to keep him company.

Of course, America will cry for a few days until he doesn't have any more tears to shed, wondering if England ever really cared in the first place. Nights when he can't sleep and the noises outside of his window become too eerie to bear, England isn't there to chase away the monsters. He isn't there when America gets stung by a bee in the backyard, so Marybeth is the one to apply salve and a dressing to his palm instead. She kisses it better, but it doesn't feel the same as when England does it. It's not as warm and tingly and healing.

These days, England only visits once a year for a few weeks. His excuse is always something along the lines of how America is old enough not to need his constant supervision, and how he has a bunch of other people who rely on him. He has an empire to maintain, and even though America knows what an empire is, he's unable to wrap his head around the sheer size of what the man is referring to.

Once upon a time, England told him he'd take him to Europe to see what it's like, and since then, America has been begging to go with him on his trips across the sea, but his mentor claims that he's still too young to make such a journey. After all, according to him, traveling on a ship isn't easy, especially not when one has to dwell on said ship for two months—sometimes even longer—just to get to a destination.

How come he's old enough to dress himself, clean his room, and do chores, but he's not old enough to see the world? England's always telling him how he's grown up enough to behave himself, but whenever America asks to do something actually fun, England claims he's too little.

So when they sit down for dinner one evening and England inevitably announces he'll be leaving the colonies in a few days, America musters up his most grown-up voice and asks, "Can I go with you?"

Unsurprisingly, England graces him with an incredulous furrow of his brows and resolutely says, "No."

"Why not?"

"We've had this discussion one too many times, America."

America resists the urge to whine. "But I promise I'll be good, and I won't cause any trouble! I'll do whatever you say, and I won't get in your way, and—!"

"I said, no, America," England repeats with cold eyes, refusing to be persuaded. "The sea is no place for a child."

"But—!"

"No. One more word out of you, and you'll earn yourself an early bedtime."

America slumps against the kitchen table and picks at his food with his fork, appetite lost. Sometimes, England treats him like such a baby, and he can't stand his condescending tone. Why does England bother telling him all of those cool stories about pirates and naval battles if he won't let America experience it for himself? Just once, he wants to know what it's like to stand on the deck of a proper ship and see the rolling waves of the ocean foam and glitter in the sunlight.

He knows England does some things he could probably get in big trouble for with the monarchy, but either England doesn't care or he's been granted some kind of immunity because he doesn't seem to worry at all about potentially being caught during one of his excursions. There's a name for those types of pirates—privateers.

America wants to fire the cannons and sing funny songs. He'd be the captain and the whole Atlantic would be scared to cross paths with him! He'd find treasure and break the laws of the Crown and—

"I can only imagine the inane scheme you're plotting right now," England says, breaking him out of his thoughts. There's a crooked smile on his lips. "You're staying in Boston, and that's my final decision. Finish your dinner."

America lets out a deflated sigh and shoves a forkful of potatoes into his mouth before washing it down with water. "When're you coming back?"

The previous smile on England's face is replaced with a frown, and America can see the sudden remorse and sadness in his eyes. "I'm not sure."

"So next year?" America asks, unable to repress the bitterness in his voice.

"That's not what I—"

"Or maybe two or three years? After all, I'm big enough to be on my own, right?"

England clicks his tongue. "You won't be alone, you'll have Marybeth here to—"

"Or maybe you'll never come back! Just admit it, you don't want to spend time with me!"

"America…"

"Just let me come with you!" America shouts, and a sob escapes him before he can try to stop it. He rises from his chair, kicks it back, and storms to the doorway, leaving the rest of his plate untouched.

"America, come back here, and let's talk about this like adults."

But America has already stopped listening. He stomps upstairs and into his room before slamming the door shut and throwing himself onto his bed, cheeks coated in uncomfortably hot tears. He's dreading the months to come—how he'll be expected to be strong and brave through the loneliness. England's right, he is still just a kid, and that's exactly why England shouldn't be leaving all of the time.

The bedroom door creaks open, and England walks in quietly with pursed lips. He steps over to where America is lying and gently puts a hand on his back, doing his best to be comforting without betraying his own emotions.

"America? I know you're upset with me," he whispers, gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. "But you know I can't stay."

America's body shakes with another sharp sob as the hand on his back continues its rubbing.

"It's for the best. You're safer here, and I'd never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you," England murmurs. "Here in the colonies, you're protected. Contrary to what you may believe, my life isn't glamorous. There are dangers to consider… I'm not doing this to hurt you."

America pulls his pillow close to his chest and mumbles, "It feels like you are."

England frowns and squeezes his shoulder. "Please try to understand."

It doesn't matter. England can try to rationalize things as much as he wants, but it doesn't serve to make America feel any better about the situation. In the end, England still packs his belongings and makes arrangements for the trip, and no amount of tears can stop him.

He'll be leaving first thing in the morning.

* * *

By all standards, Marybeth makes a fine caretaker. She's organized, spry, and has a perpetual smile on her face. She does, however, have one fatal flaw—she's hopelessly naïve.

After America says goodbye to England and watches him get in his carriage, he asks Marybeth if he can go and sit in the yard. He claims he needs to get some air, and she thinks it's because he's overwrought with sadness over England being gone. So, she lets him go out unsupervised, and America takes the perfect opportunity to climb the fence and run away. By the time she realizes he's missing, he'll already be too far away for her to catch him.

It's not far to the docks on foot, and America races there as fast as his legs will carry him, hoping to catch England's ship before it departs.

He's on a mission. If he sneaks onto the ship and doesn't get caught until they make landfall again, he'll have proven to England he really is mature enough to handle a life at sea. The man will be impressed, and they'll get to be with each other all of the time.

It's ingenious.

He's sweating from exhaustion by the time he makes it to the docks, but it's all worth it because he sees England boarding the ship. In fact, he's just close enough to see the crewmembers grovel at his arrival. One by one, they bow their heads and refer to him as either "Captain" or "sir," and America is amazed by the amount of authority England seems to have over them.

He looks incredibly regal in his crimson robes and plumage, and America himself can't help but feel a little small by simply being in his proximity.

Now he just has to figure out how to get himself on board as well.

The crew seems to be loading some of the last crates of cargo onto the ship, and if he's clever about it, America's sure he could hide inside one of them, preferably one that's not entirely full with food or other supplies.

He finds a half-empty box with gauze and textiles inside, and before he can second guess his decision, he slips into it. Unfortunately for him, it's disgustingly hot inside of the crate, and he can almost feel the summer sun's rays being absorbed by the wood as one of the crewman lifts him up and carries him on deck.

He just barely bites back a yelp of fear when he's dropped down the hatch, and he and the box fall with a thud to the lower deck, rattled. Thankfully, he isn't hurt in the process, and someone pushes him into the hold of the ship where the rest of the extra food and resources are stored.

When the commotion around him stops, and he's sure no one's going to come by any time soon, he crawls out of the crate with a quiet groan and stiff muscles. It's still humid and hot, but he hides behind a row of crates and rests against the wall behind them, thinking that if maybe he doesn't move around too much, he'll cool off.

He's not sure how long he sits in place, but it must be a good while because the ship lurches with life and begins to move, occasionally swaying from side to side.

And then, he hears England shouting commands and using colorful words he's never heard before. He's tempted to laugh at catching his caretaker using such foul language, but then he notices the sheer venom in England's tone, and he shudders in response, feeling sorry for anyone who's in trouble.

From what he gathers, they aren't heading for Europe. Instead, their course is set for the Caribbean.

America's not sure how he feels about that news, but with England on board with him, he's not as scared as he should be. He treats himself to an apple from one of the food barrels and readies himself for a long journey, wondering what adventures await.

He should be more careful with his wishes.

* * *

 _"I've money in my pocket, love,  
_ _And bright gold in store;  
_ _These clothes of mine are all in rags,  
_ _But coin can buy more."_

The men are singing again, and all America wants to do is vomit. Much to his chagrin, he has become very aware of how prone he is to seasickness. As the others cajole and pass around a bottle of rum, he keeps his distance and hides in one of the dark corners of the hold, one arm wrapped around his churning, bloated belly. Two days at sea, and he's already considering flinging himself overboard. This was not what he had in mind when he decided he wanted to experience the life of a pirate.

 _"Though black my hands my gold is clean  
_ _So I'll sail afar,  
_ _A fairer maid than you, I ween,  
_ _Will wed this Jack tar."_

He really hopes he doesn't actually get sick. Everyone will smell it if he does, and he'll be caught within minutes. He didn't suffer for the past forty-eight hours just to be discovered so soon.

Just then, the ship rocks violently backward, and America has to dig the heels of his shoes into the floor to keep himself from sliding out of his hiding spot. A few seconds pass, and the ship rights itself, but the men are visibly startled by all of this and they climb up to the deck to investigate.

A crack of thunder gives them all an answer, and America squeezes his eyes shut in fear. Of all of the places to be caught in a storm, this is certainly not the location he would have chosen. Swiftly, he staggers onto his feet and sneaks his way over to the open hatch, trying to listen in on what's happening.

A heavy door comes flying open, and England comes marching out of the captain's quarters, boots squelching against the wet floorboards as his robes billow behind him. Over the wind and rain, America can only pick out parts of the conversation.

 _"—change the course..."  
_ _"Sir! We have company!"  
_ _"Ahh… I see a slimy frog in the distance," England growls.  
_ _"Should we ready the cannons? Or raise our flag?"  
_ _"There's no need. They appear to be taking on water as we speak."  
_ _"We could take her over and pilfer her before she sinks."  
_ _"Captain, it appears they're surrendering."_

It's quiet for a long minute, and Alfred waits to see what will happen next, jolting when another clap of thunder catches him by surprise and a mist of rain comes spraying down the hatch.

 _"Should we leave them to Davy Jones' locker?"  
_ _"Bugger all… Fish them out. We can have them walk the plank later if they don't prove to be useful," England decides. "And be quick about it!"  
_ _"Aye! Go on, lads!"_

America braces himself as another powerful wave jostles the ship, and there's a whole lot of shouting above him before he hears extra pairs of boots come pounding on deck. He risks taking a peek through the hatch and sees England standing just a few feet away. He has the collar of someone's shirt in his fist as he says, " _You_ again."

The man he's holding has long, wavy blond hair curtaining the sides of his face and amused blue eyes. They're both absolutely drenched. " _Oui_ , I know you've missed me, _Angleterre_. I did not think I would meet an old friend out here. Running errands for the Queen again, are we?"

England rolls his eyes and lets go of the man's collar with a disgusted curl of his lips. "Cleave him to the brisket, lads!"

The man laughs and shakes his sopping wet head. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

A crewman takes out his cutlass and holds it to the man's shoulder, and there's a calculating expression on England's face.

"Arthur, _mon amie_. If you had wanted me dead, you wouldn't have brought me here."

"The thanks I get for saving your arse," England hisses before commanding his crewmember to put down his sword. "I've changed my mind. I'll deal with this frog myself. Take him to the—"

Alfred doesn't catch the rest of the sentence because something, or rather, someone, comes careening down the hatch and knocks into him, tossing him to the ground. He groans and rubs his head as he collects himself, and he's stunned to see that there's a boy sitting directly beside him with wide, terrified eyes and a stuffed bear.

"Who're you?" America asks the boy, and when the kid turns around to face him, he feels like he's going to vomit all over again.

And that's because this strange boy looks almost _exactly_ like him. They could be twins.

America is immediately wary of him, and he stands up to his full height and puffs out his chest, trying to seem tough and intimidating. "Are you some kind of ghost, or demon, or something? What do you want from me? I-I'll beat you up!"

The boy quivers and holds his stuffed bear up to his face, hiding behind it. " _Non!_ "

"What're you doing here? I-I know the captain of the ship! He'll toss you into the sea if I tell him to!" America warns, brandishing two fists. "So? What's it gonna be? You bilge-sucking rat!"

He's heard that insult used around on the ship, and he hopes he sounds big and powerful when he says it. It seems to have some kind of effect on the boy because he takes a couple steps back and releases a frightened whimper.

"Say something, demon!"

"D-Don't hurt me!" the boy says in broken English, tears running down his rosy cheeks.

"Answer me, then! What are you?"

"Canada."

"Canada? What's a Canada?" America asks, unimpressed. Reluctantly, he lowers his fists.

"My name is Canada," the boy clarifies with a sniffle.

"Oh. _OH_. You're that Canada! England's told me about you. You're France's colony, right?"

" _Oui_."

America frowns, confused by this boy's weird speech. "Wee?"

"I mean, yes."

"Okay, well, I'm America, and you'd better watch your back because I'm not someone you wanna mess with, kid!"

Canada rubs at his swollen eyes and sniffles again. "I d-don't want to fight."

"Yeah, because you know you'd lose!" America huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll let you off the hook this time. So, how'd you end up here, Canada?"

"I-I went onto France's ship even though I wasn't supposed to, and now he's going to be really angry," Canada explains, genuinely concerned.

"Oh, that's okay! I'm not supposed to be here either, actually," America admits with a reassuring grin. He's just beginning to feel confident about the entire situation when the thunder comes back with fury and scares the living daylights out of him again. He pales and his feet become ice cold.

Canada steps forward, puts a hand on his shoulder, and asks, "Are you scared of the storm, too?"

"Nuh-uh! Who do you think I am? Some kinda baby?" America gasps, insulted. A second round of thunder follows the first though, and he jumps half a foot into the air.

Canada, the cheeky kid, smiles knowingly at him.

"All right, so maybe I'm a little scared. Look, I can't stand around here all night. I've gotta hide before someone finds out I'm here."

"Can I hide, too?"

"You promise to be quiet and not tell on me to England?"

"I promise."

"Okay. You can sit in my corner with me then," America agrees, leading the way back to his place behind the storage crates. "You gotta stay close to the wall and out of the light, okay?"

"Okay."

The thunder rumbles again, and America instinctively reaches out his arms and tightens them around Canada, breathing hard. Half a second later, Canada's arms coil around his waist as well.

"I'll protect us," America says, even though he's not so sure he's capable of keeping that promise.

Canada seems to believe him though, silly boy.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thanks for bearing with me, guys! November looks like it's going to be a busy month for me, but I'll try to keep going through these requests as best as I can. :) Enjoy!

* * *

America isn't sure how he falls asleep in between the torrent of water inundating the ship, the blasts of ferocious lightning and thunder striking every few minutes, and the low moaning of the wind. He doesn't realize the storm is over, until he wakes up with crusty eyes and an exhausted Canada slouched against his left shoulder.

His muscles are sore and stiff from sleeping on the creaky, wooden floorboards for yet another night, and as he does his best to stretch and massage the worst of the tenderness away, Canada's eyes flutter open and his mouth parts just enough to take in a tiny gasp of breath.

"Hey," America greets him cheerfully, trying to keep their spirits up, even though he feels absolutely awful on both a physical and emotional level. "Good mornin'."

Canada rubs his face, stares at America in a state of confusion for a moment, and then recalls the events of the previous night. " _Bon_ —hi," he corrects himself.

"Yesterday was strange, huh?"

"Yes."

"At least no one knows we're here," America says, a smidgen of pride in his voice. "How much worse can it get than that storm? I bet it'll be smooth sailing from here."

Canada makes a noise of agreement that doesn't sound particularly convincing, and his skepticism increases tenfold when a mosquito plonks itself down on America's hand and bites him.

"Agh," America yelps, smacking the mosquito away a fraction of a second too late. There's a little white bump left behind on his skin, and he's tempted to rub and pick at it.

Amused, Canada stretches his legs and lets out a quiet laugh.

"What's so funny?" America frowns, still not entirely sure how he feels about this kid. He's a little weird, and it's going to take some more prodding and investigating before he's willing to trust him. "It could've just as easily gotten you… Ugh, why's it so hot in here, again? It's hard to breathe. I wish we could just go up to the deck."

Canada shrugs his shoulders.

"Not much of a talker, are you? Well, that's okay. I can talk for both of us," America huffs.

Ignoring the jibe, Canada murmurs, "Maybe I should tell France I'm here. He'll be angry, but he'll take me home, and I really _miss_ home."

Instantly opposed to the idea, America looks straight into Canada's eyes and exclaims, "You can't do that! You'll get me caught, and I don't want England finding out I'm here. He'll start talking in that really scary voice he always uses when he's upset, and then his face will turn all reddish purple. He'll give me a lecture about how I've gotta be more responsible and aware of the consequences of my actions—the usual. If he finds me here now, he'll probably give me a strapping, and then I'll never get to be the captain of my own ship!"

To America's great surprise, tears start tumbling down Canada's cheeks.

"H-Hey, don't cry. What're you cryin' for?"

"I should have never left home. I'm hungry, France is going to hate me, and it smells bad here," Canada whispers, shaking.

Feeling something stir in his heart, America dabs at Canada's tears with his fingers and smooths his hair back like England has done countless times for him. "It's all right. It's not so bad down here. Just think about it, if you hadn't run away from home, you'd never would've met me! I'm a fun kid!"

"I g-guess."

"You just have to get your mind off of the bad stuff. Think about something happy, like how we're on an adventure, and we don't have to listen to any adults because they don't know we're here. We're free! We can do anything we want," America explains, jumping to his feet. He takes a second to think, looks to make sure there's no one close enough to hear or see him, and then starts prancing around back and forth between the supply crates, holding up one hand and pretending to brandish a sword. "Shiver me timbers!" he says in the most exaggerated manner possible.

A smirk lifts Canada's frown as he watches America make a fool of himself.

"They say yer the fearsome Canada, King of the Seven Seas, but yer no match for me! Take this!" America shouts, driving his imaginary sword forward.

Deciding to play along, Canada rises and draws out his imaginary weapon of choice as well. "You'll never take me alive!"

They battle it out, swooshing their hands back and forth and pretending to knock one another over every now and again. At one point, Canada traps America in a corner, and just when it seems like Canada will deliver the final blow, America dashes past him and somersaults over to the other side of the hold.

"Ready to give up?" America asks haughtily.

"Never!"

Except they don't have a choice in the matter because there's a sound of movement nearby, and both boys quickly duck back into their hiding spot, staying completely still as they try not to breathe too hard.

Fortunately, it's just a false alarm.

They both snicker when the coast is clear and lean against the wall behind them, grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey, America?"

"Yeah?"

"D-Do you think…? Do you think we're maybe...?" Canada shakes his head and sighs. "Never mind, it's stupid."

"No, tell me! What's stupid?"

Canada bites his lip and says in a rush, "Do you think we're brothers?"

America knits his brows together in thought. "Brothers? I don't know. We do look a lot like each other."

"Wouldn't France or England have said something though? France never told me I have a brother."

"Maybe they forgot."

"How?"

America sighs this time, throwing his hands up into the air in frustration. "I don't know! Maybe they didn't want us to know. England's done a lot of things lately that I don't understand, so maybe it's just one of those things we won't know until we're grown-up."

"Isn't it mean not to tell someone they have a brother?"

"Yeah, it is, but England's a mean guy, so I can see why he'd do something like that."

Canada glowers. "I never say mean things about France. You shouldn't say mean things about England."

"Why not? He can be a real jerk."

"Well, with France, even when he does things I don't like, he says it's because it's what's good for me," Canada explains, scuffing the tip of his shoe against the floor.

"Yeah, England says that, too. Adults say it when they want you to listen to them, but it doesn't mean they're right all of the time," America grumbles. "It's not right for England to always be leaving me and going off and doing fun things without me."

Canada nods sympathetically. "France leaves a lot, too."

"Does he ever take you with him?"

"No. Only once or twice."

"Well, England doesn't take me at all. He says the world's too dangerous," America complains, feeling the same pit of hurt and hollowness he always feels when his caretaker walks out the front door without him. "But it doesn't matter now because I'm here, and he's going to regret he ever made me stay in the house."

Canada, on the other hand, continues to defend his mentor. "I still love France, even though he's not always around. He always takes care of me, makes me food, and sings to me when I can't sleep or don't feel well."

America's stomach flips, and he throws up into one of the nearby crates filled with some sort of rope or twine. The pit of hurt gets bigger, and while his head is still hanging over the edge of the crate, he mumbles, "England doesn't care about me. He thinks I'm a burden."

* * *

Finding a good place to hide on a ship is hard—harder than one would think, given the size of the structure.

Canada tries to find a place for them to relocate after the combined smell of the salty sea, unwashed sweating bodies, and America's recent… accident in the crate becomes too much to simply ignore. The first day isn't too bad, but by the second and third days, Canada is also just about ready to be sick.

America, meanwhile, isn't confident he'd be able to move from their spot even if he wanted to. The heat is killing him, and he doesn't understand how Canada can sit directly next to him with hardly a bead of sweat on his neck. He's burning up. A few more days, and he'll be a raging ball of fire.

"You don't look so good," Canada tells him, stating the obvious.

America blinks through his heavy-lidded eyes and wonders why there are two and a half Canadas in front of him. His head aches, he can't think straight, and his stomach just seems to be getting worse and worse by the hour.

"Want some water to drink?" Canada asks.

The thought of water makes him extra nauseous. He's not thirsty even though he hasn't had anything to drink since yesterday afternoon.

Hot, hot, hot.

Canada seems to be extremely worried. "M-Maybe I should get help?"

"No," America begs, despite the protests in every muscle and nerve in his body. "Don't…"

"But you're really sick."

"No, I'm not. It's just the heat from the—"

"It's not any hotter than it normally is down here," Canada argues, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm going to get help."

"No, Canada! Stop!" America shouts weakly, watching the boy saunter off down a hallway. He wants to follow him and pull him back, but he can't even lift his arms anymore. Somehow, they've turned into jelly without his permission. He smacks his dry lips and moans, feeling so hot that he wants to crawl out of his skin. He's going to melt here.

Where's Canada? He isn't coming back. There's some muffled noise far, far away, and America's eyes get too heavy and tired to stay open. He waits and waits for what seems like forever and a day, until finally, someone touches his arm.

He peels his red-rimmed eyes open once more and expects to see Canada, but instead, it's a very irate albeit concerned England with the wavy-haired man, France, hovering behind him. England's lips move as he says something, but America can't hear a word of it. So, in response, he lets out a long groan, and it makes him feel a little less abysmal.

England's arms pick him up, and he lies in his grip like a sack of spuds, not even managing to wiggle a toe. He wants to scream for England to let him go—that he can walk just fine on his own, and he doesn't need the man doting over him, especially not after their recent quarrels. Nonetheless, his voice fails to work, and he gets carried down a narrow corridor, up a set of stairs, and into a nice, cozy room with a giant bed in the middle—the captain's quarters.

England sets him down on the bed, disappears in a blur of color momentarily, and then returns with a bucket and a wet rag. Without warning, the wet rag is dropped onto America's forehead, and he whimpers at how cold it is, even though he's been trying to escape the heat all of this time. England mops up his whole face with it, still looking incredibly angry, although there is a glimmer of fear in his green eyes.

Canada is now standing at the foot of the bed, peering over at America with the same wide, doe-like eyes he had when America first met him a few nights ago. Beside him, looms France with one hand on Canada's shoulder to reassure him.

This isn't heroic or mature in the least, America laments, wishing he could at least sit up and preserve what little dignity he has left.

"—Merica? America, can you hear me now?"

"Yes," America mutters as a shiver runs down his spine and causes him to flinch.

England makes a tutting noise and presses a hand firmly against his forehead, holding it there for a few seconds. "Good lord, what have you done?"

"Ughh…"

"Just wait until you're out of this bed," England growls, struggling to contain his exasperation. He scans America's figure with roving eyes, and then, he picks up his hand and inspects it. It's the hand where that pesky mosquito bit him.

"What is it?" France asks, coming closer.

England runs a thumb over the bite and frowns. "It's either malaria or yellow fever. I'm willing to bet on yellow fever. Look at his eyes."

America manages to wriggle slightly. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"Shh," England says, feeling his forehead and cheeks again. "I don't want to hear so much as a peep out of you, or so help me God—"

"Don't act like you care," America snaps.

"Of course I care, foolish child! Seeing you lying comatose in the hold of my ship when I believed you to be in Boston is not something I can take lightly!" England snarls, tossing a blanket over America before tucking him in. "You're going to send me to an early grave. How you came up with such a reckless plot is beyond me!"

From the other end of the room, France snorts with laughter and says, "I never thought I'd live to see my dear _Angleterre_ turn into a mother hen."

England, surprisingly, doesn't even acknowledge the snarky comment. His focus remains entirely on the sickly America in front of him. "Stay in bed. I'll contact the physician."

"No!" America cries out, hating this horrible turn of events. How's he going to prove to England he's big enough to be on his own and travel with him now? England will just use this incident as an example of how frail he is, and how he still needs someone to keep him out of trouble.

"You're not in a position to argue," England states sternly, pressing his hand to America's forehead one more time for good measure. "I can see I've been too lenient with you, that's why you think this behavior is acceptable."

America groans and tries to hold himself up with his jelly arms, but England carefully pushes him back down. "I don't—!"

The rim of a mug of water collides with his lips, and England tilts it just enough to let the water dribble into America's mouth. "Drink and stop fussing," he says, as if America is no better than a sulky two-year-old. When a good portion of the water is gone, England relents, sets the mug aside, and sighs. "There we are."

Slowly, America feels his eyes closing against his will again. He hears England and France exchange a few more words near the doorway, and Canada shuffles away with them when France announces he's in for the lecture of a lifetime.

"How could you do this to me, _mon lapin_?"

" _Je suis désolé, Papa_ ," Canada apologizes sheepishly, voice a little squeakier than usual.

And with that, the door is shut behind them, and America is left to sleep, even though sleeping this late in the day isn't a grown-up thing to do.

* * *

The creaking of the floorboards wakes him, or maybe it's the weight on the other side of the bed that suddenly makes itself known. Either way, America rouses out of the thick daze of lethargy, still feeling hot, fevered, and generally disgusting.

England lies next to him (this is his bed, after all), and when he sees America shift about, his expression becomes softer. "How are you feeling?"

Why is he being so nice? He has every reason in the world to give America an earful for causing so much chaos and then landing himself in bed like this, and yet, England doesn't seem angry at all—not even a little bit. He seemed frustrated earlier, but now, it's like they're back home in Boston and nothing has changed.

The tenderness in England's tone makes him blubber like a baby, and America blames the fever for making him so irrational and sensitive. The emotion of the moment overtakes him, and he cries just because he wants to. His muscles are still sore and bothersome, he's caked in his own sweat, and his stomach burns with an acidic sensation.

England, for his part, is quite alarmed. "There, there," he coos, brushing America's stray hairs away from his clammy forehead. "The doctor had a look at you while you were asleep. He says you'll be just fine with enough rest, so there's no need to fret. Why don't you try to drink some more water and go back to sleep?"

America shakes his stuffy, congested head and mumbles, "Where's Canada?"

"Who?"

"Canada," America repeats, louder this time.

"Ah," England says with a nod, remembering. "He's helping to clean the upper deck as his punishment."

"Are you… gonna make me clean, too?"

"Oh, you'll be doing more than that, but we can discuss your punishment at great length once you've recuperated."

"I wanna see Canada."

"Perhaps he'll come to visit you later."

America kicks his legs out and frowns. "It's all his fault."

"If it weren't for him, you'd have grown even more ill," England reprimands. "You owe him your thanks."

"He's my brother, isn't he?"

England's mouth falls shut and he stiffens. "Yes."

"You didn't tell me I have a brother."

"No, I didn't," England sighs, looking somewhat guilty, "for reasons you wouldn't understand."

"I understand," America snaps back, sitting up halfway. "It's because you want me to be alone forever, and you don't care if I don't have any friends or no one comes to visit me or—!"

England purses his lips and interjects, "Canada is a _French_ colony. It is both politically and culturally amoral for you to be—"

"He's family!"

"Not in the way you think," England retorts, tone getting sharper the more America says. "It just simply isn't proper."

"I don't care about being proper," America huffs.

England looks like he's about ready to dive into a long lecture about the importance of good mannerisms and diplomacy in relation to the rest of the Empire, but he stops himself when America gives a particularly loud and strong sneeze, casting silence upon the room.

"We'll talk about this another time," he promises instead, pushing America to lie down insistently. "Go to sleep."

"Just because you hate your brothers doesn't mean I have to hate mine," America says, immediately feeling bad about it when he sees the sad look on England's face. "England, I—"

"We'll talk about this another time," England repeats before rising up off of the bed and sweeping out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Here's the final chapter for this request. Thanks again to **kandielric** on Tumblr for the great idea! Enjoy :D

* * *

It's sometime late into the night when America wakes up from a fever induced dream, eyes feeling like they've been glued shut. His skin is still tingly and hot all over, but he has enough strength to roll over on his side and see England sleeping fitfully in a wooden chair by his bedside, mouth hanging open.

There's a voice coming from somewhere down the hall, and America recognizes it as France's sing-song tone. Apparently, he has taken charge of the ship's course for the time being, which is quite the miracle, considering England had threatened to toss the man overboard less than seventy-two hours ago.

A few minutes pass before America notices he and England aren't the only ones in the room. At the very end of the bed, Canada is curled up into a little ball, snoring softly as his head rests on America's left foot.

This kid is weird, and yet, America feels the instinctive tug of brotherly love draw him closer to the boy. He reaches out a hand and carefully pokes him awake, waiting for his reaction.

Jolting, Canada snaps his head up. No more than a second later, his arms are wrapped around America's waist, hugging him with as much strength as he can without causing any pain.

"Are you okay?" Canada asks fretfully, eyes shimmering.

A brother—the thought of having one is appealing. For as long as he can remember, America's always been stuck either keeping to himself or vying for England's attention. He's never had anyone to call a friend, aside from maids, nannies, and the other rare people who know of his existence. With Canada around, he'd never have to feel alone again. They could live together and play games and—

"Come back to Boston with me," he says, forgetting about Canada's question. "I can show you my room, and we can share a bed."

Taken aback, Canada sits up with the help of his knees and says, "But I have a home."

"So what? Leave and move in with me," America insists.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't think France would like that."

"But we're brothers. I asked England about it, and he said we are, so that means we're supposed to stick together."

Startled by all of this new information, Canada lets his arms drop from the hug and says, "I can't just leave."

Increasingly frustrated, America feels his heartbeat quicken. "Don't you want to live together?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"But nothing… I-I knew it! You don't care that I'm your brother. Y-You—"

Fever playing with his fragile emotions, America feels tears pool in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, hurt. It's not fair! Just when he thinks he's found a best friend, he's going to have to say goodbye?

"It's not like that, America," Canada tries to explain, but it's too late.

Roused by the noise, England opens his eyes and frowns when he sees America crying again. He pushes his chair closer to the bed, puts a calming hand on America's shoulder and asks, "What's wrong, lad? Are you feeling worse?"

America shakes his head and says something along the lines of "Canada's the worst brother ever," but he's impossible to understand through his sobs and sniffles, so England merely gets up, seats himself on the edge of the bed, and cards a hand through his hair in an attempt to quiet him.

It's then that England finally notices Canada's presence. "And what are you doing in here, boy?"

Canada shrinks under the stern green gaze and bites his lip, terrified.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to explain himself because France comes barging through the door and marches inside, bringing a sense of urgency in with him. He's a bit breathless as he shouts, "Spanish pirates!"

England stands up at once and storms over to France before twisting around and stating, "Stay here, both of you! No one steps out of this room until France or I return, do I make myself clear?"

Seeing another opportunity to prove himself, America sloppily dries his tears and fumbles around as he tries to wrench himself out of the mess of blankets on the bed. "I want to help!"

" _No_ ," England says with a frightening seriousness. " _Stay here_."

And with that, France and England rush out the door and shut it behind them, leaving the boys to wait in silence.

But America isn't going to admit defeat so easily. With a powerful heave, he throws himself off of the bed and manages to keep his balance on staggering feet before making his way for the door as well.

"What are you doing?" Canada gasps, astounded. "You heard England. We have to stay here."

"The ship's in trouble. I have to help."

"Are you crazy? You can barely walk!"

America copies England's scowl and trots along on teetering legs. "I can walk fine."

He yanks the door open and shuffles down the hallway, glowering when he hears a series of shouts on deck. Carefully, he reaches the hatch and climbs up to see what's going on, and the sounds of real swords clashing and grinding against one another makes him shiver. Under the dark sky, it's hard to see everyone's faces clearly, but he can see England fighting someone near the helm, and a balloon of worry swells in his gut for the safety of his caretaker as he approaches him.

The pirate catches England off guard when he slashes at his legs, forcing him to stumble backward. Fortunately, England catches himself on some of the ship's rigging, but his sword slips out of his grasp and clatters to the floor as he's righting himself, and the pirate's sword comes precariously close to his throat.

Acting on impulse, America dashes forward as swiftly as his still recovering body will allow him, picks up England's sword, and takes a good swing at the pirate, stopping him in his tracks.

Shrugging off his initial shock, the pirate laughs and mockingly pouts at America. " _Hola_ , _querido niño._ What are you doing out in the middle of the sea like this?"

Before America can plan his next attack, the pirate lifts him up by the collar of his shirt and knocks the sword out of his hands with another pitying laugh. He holds his own sword up to America's neck and grins challengingly at England. "A stowaway? I can kill him for you."

England pales but doesn't move, and America can tell by the look in his eyes that he's weighing his options.

"How do you say it? _Cute_. He's cute," the Spaniard chuckles, dangling America back and forth like a fish.

For a long, sickening moment, America thinks England might let the pirate have him. After all, he's been nothing but a thorn in the man's side lately, and maybe England will think he deserves to be punished like this. Then he won't have to visit America at all, and he'll be happy because he'll have one less burden on his hands.

The thought makes America nauseous again, and he briefly wonders if he'd be able to throw up all over the pirate to get him to release him. He feels his stomach clench in pain, and a bead of sweat meanders down his temple.

And then, England pulls a pistol out of his pocket.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You shoot and our sweet _niño_ dies," the pirate warns, pressing the blade of his sword lightly against America's skin.

Of course, America's pretty sure he can't die, but it would still be excruciatingly painful if that sword cut into his neck. It wouldn't be a wound that would heal quickly.

England's gaze turns directly to America's, and they stare at each other for a moment. Immediately, America knows what England wants him to do. He's seen England give him that look before. It's the I-give-you-permission-to-be-a-brat look.

Steeling himself, America takes in a sharp breath and uses his brute strength to bite the pirate's arm and flail desperately. He thrashes and thrashes like he does when England announces he has to take a bath, and while the pirate is distracted, England fires his pistol.

The pirate collapses and America is freed. Hurriedly, he scurries to England's side and grabs him by the lapels of his coat, hanging on tightly.

England puts the pistol back in its holster and lifts America into his arms, embracing him. The man's heart is pounding so hard America can feel it through his shirt, and he's shaking slightly.

"Are you all right?" England asks him, checking him over for cuts and bruises.

America nods his head, scared that if he speaks, he'll burst into tears again.

England's fingers curl into his hair affectionately, and then, once the moment is over, he instantly becomes strict and formidable again. "What in the world did you think you were doing? How many times are you going to deliberately disobey me this week? What you did was not only foolish—"

"You were almost hurt," America reminds, hoping that'll help mitigate the man's anger.

It does.

England sighs. "Nonetheless, you shouldn't have put your own wellbeing at risk. I am an adult, and you mustn't concern yourself with my matters."

"I wasn't going to just watch you get hurt!"

England feels his forehead, makes a noise of great disapproval, and starts walking them across the deck, assessing the damage and making sure the threat has passed. Surprisingly, they find France as well as Canada standing a short distance away, and much like England had just done, France starts yelling and lecturing Canada in quick, succinct French.

Canada hunches his shoulders and looks genuinely remorseful, and America must admit he's impressed that the boy left the captain's quarters after all. He'd expected him to be a goodie-two-shoes and hang back obediently.

"What are we going to do with the two of you?" France asks angrily, flushed in the face. "Today's children are so defiant!"

America snickers against England's chest, and earns himself a swat on the rear as a result. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For treating this situation so lightly," England explains, giving him another swat for good measure. "One more incident like this, and you'll be in for a long overdue strapping."

America frowns. He knows England is probably bluffing, but it's best not to call him out on it, or else he might really get punished. If there's one thing England doesn't like, it's not being taken seriously.

"Time to go back to bed," England decides, heading for the captain's quarters yet again, and America groans at the idea of falling victim to more fevered dreams. He lets England carry him away, and purposefully looks away from Canada, still holding a grudge over how he claimed he wouldn't come with him to Boston.

As England tucks him in again and settles him down for another round of sleep, America thinks he might as well ask the man his opinion on the situation. When he's not annoyed or angry, England's usually good at giving advice, but first, America knows he should apologize for his previous transgressions.

"Hey, England? I-I'm really sorry about what I said about you and your brothers earlier. I didn't mean it, and I didn't realize how much it would hurt you," he says quietly, blinking puppy-like eyes at the man. "It wasn't right of me, and… And it's not how a gentleman is supposed to act."

England gives him a half-smile and pats his arm. "I know. Thank you for apologizing. You were understandably upset with me, and I should've told you about Canada sooner. I shouldn't have withheld that kind of information from you, but I was only trying to protect you. I was concerned that if you found out about Canada, you would get caught up in the politics between France and I, which is something I'd like to spare you from as long as possible."

America purses his lips. "I guess I understand… It still wasn't right though."

"No, it wasn't. I-I apologize as well, America. I didn't want things to be this way. Of course I would've liked for you to have better known your sibling, but given the current circumstances… France and I aren't exactly on the same page, and our governments have become increasingly cross with one another. There is talk of another war, and the peace right now will be short-lived, it seems. This is why I didn't want you to have relations with Canada. Perhaps someday, things will change."

"I a-asked him to come live in Boston with me, but he said no. He likes being with France," America admits, cheeks burning. "I-I thought… I thought we could be friends."

"I'm sorry, America. Truly," England says. "But you must see that Canada has his own land and his own people. He is France's colony, just as you are mine."

"I know…" America mumbles, not too happy about the arrangements. "Will I ever get to see him again after this? Can I still visit him or something?"

"We'll see," England replies, and America knows from experience that this usually means "no."

"Okay."

"But now you need to rest. You've been traipsing about and making your condition worse. Lie still."

America nods glumly and turns on his side, profoundly sleepy but too anxious to actually drift off. "England? Do you know any French?"

England wrinkles his nose in disgust. "A fair amount, unfortunately. It's a dreadful language—a whole lot of croaking and nasally intonations."

"I've heard Canada speak French. It's nice," America remarks, trying to get comfortable but failing. "Can you sing something in French?"

England has sung a plethora of lullabies in his time, but he's never been asked to do it in _French_. He seems stricken by the request, but when he sees the glazed-over look of sadness in America's eyes, he relents and clears his throat, trying to recall the French nursery rhymes he's been forcibly exposed to in his long life. There's one about a ship, but he's not sure if he remembers all of the words.

" _Il était un petit navire_

 _Il était un petit navire_

 _Qui n'avait ja-ja-jamais navigué_

 _Qui n'avait ja-ja-jamais navigué._

 _Ohé ohé!"_

Some of the pronunciation is probably off, but America is none the wiser and is soothed by it anyway.

"What's all of that mean?" America asks.

"There was a little ship that never sailed. Ahoy, ahoy," England translates roughly, and America makes a contented noise before slowly falling asleep, chest rising and falling with long, calm breaths.

France, the darn eavesdropper, comes waltzing into the room, doing his best to be as quiet as possible to avoid waking America. "Someone's been practicing their French," he teasingly whispers. "I'm so proud."

"Yes, yes, laugh all you want, you git. Unlike some, I am able to appreciate the importance in being familiar with other languages other than my own," England hisses before gently pushing America's hair back and planting a chaste kiss to his still overly warm head. Then, he tiptoes across the room, pokes a finger into France's chest, and says, "We have to talk."

"You know I always enjoy chatting with you," France smiles. "What am I in trouble for now?"

"It's about Canada."

* * *

By England's orders, the ship heads back for Boston, and they return in a little over a week, at which point America is healthy and able to perform all of his daily activities without needing to lean on someone for support. He hopes he never gets yellow fever again because that was one of the worst sicknesses he's ever had the misfortune of encountering.

America is supposed to go straight home, where Marybeth will be waiting for him with a hot meal on the table. She will probably be infuriated, and America will have to do double the amount of chores he's normally expected to do in order to win over her trust again. He will have to say goodbye to England once again, and then, the ship will travel farther north, so that Canada can be brought home as well.

America begs for England to let the ship head for Canada's land first so that he can have more time to spend with the man, but England refuses to listen to any of his pleading.

So that's how America finds himself on the docks of Boston once again, arms clasped around England and begging him to come back soon because he doesn't know if he'll be able to stand the seclusion for very long.

"I'll be back before you have a chance to miss me," England promises, and America can tell that he's not too happy about having to leave either. "I'll write to you as soon as we make landfall, all right? And I'll be back for Christmas."

"Promise?"

"Yes, but you have to behave for Marybeth while I'm gone. If I hear that you've caused _any_ trouble, you'll be getting coal in your stocking," England warns. "Now, I believe there's someone else who would like to say goodbye."

Canada peeks out from behind England and walks around him to hug America, and America hugs him back, no longer upset.

"I'll miss you," America says with honesty, "We found each other once. We'll find each other again."

Canada nods and mumbles, "I'll miss you, too. I like having a brother."

"Me, too."

"And if France is mean to you, I'll beat him up," America adds.

From behind them, England doesn't bother muffling his laughter, and France smacks his arm.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Canada mutters, "I'll try to make sure they don't fight too much."

"Don't worry. They'll get along around you. They won't fight in front of a kid, if they can help it," America reassures, tousling Canada's hair for good measure. "See you around, brother."

Canada smirks and nods. "Bye, brother."

And with that, Canada follows England and France back onto the ship, and America watches them depart, knowing that this time, he won't be able to follow. The years that are to come will be full of turmoil, bloodshed, confusion, and fear for the future, but standing there on that dock and watching the ship disappear on the clear horizon is an image America won't soon forget.

Much to his amazement, Canada is allowed to visit once or twice thanks to some maneuvering on England's part, but then the Seven Years War begins, and everything changes. When Canada falls under England's reign, America thinks they'll be closer than ever before, and yet, their lands are both so close and so far away that neither of them ever manage to fully cross paths. It's politics as usual.

America supposes it's better not to have a family than to deal with the constant ache of separation.

So when he turns his back on England in 1776, he makes certain _he_ is the one to leave this time. He will finally know how it feels. Blind faith tells him everything will sort itself out. He will find Canada again someday. He's sure of it.

He's free, and in that sense, he becomes a pirate in his own right, once and for all.


End file.
